Making Friends
by Charlotte K
Summary: "Nicked all his Smurfs? Broke his Action Man?" It runs a little bit deeper than that. Times the Holmes boys actually acted like brothers. And times they wished they weren't.
1. Making Friends

Mycroft's eyelids grow heavy, as the scent of lilac and the soft chirping of sparrows float on the breeze. He turns the page of his worn book, leans back in the rocking chair on the verandah, and doesn't get too far down the page before his eyes start to close, and the book finds itself on his lap. He hears the sounds of four-year-old Sherlock in the garden, digging and searching, playing and exploring. Mycroft feels himself drifting into a light dream of shades of lavender and pale green, and the world around him slowly fades away. _Chaos: 0; Peace and quiet: 1._...

Sherlock's scream echoes across the yard. Mycroft's eyes snap open, and he nearly tips his chair over backwards. His heart jolts painfully in his chest. _So much for quiet..._ He knows this scream, though. He doesn't hear it often, but on the rare occasion that he _does_, it makes his blood run cold. It's not the "Aha!" kind of shout the little boy usually makes when he's out adventuring in the garden. His little brother isn't having fun. Mycroft knows this scream: Sherlock is hurt. He nearly tips the chair over again, forwards this time, and he sends the book falling to the ground as he jumps down from the verandah and rushes over to the garden.

Sherlock is sitting in one of the flower beds, his face slimy with tears. The straps on his denim overalls have fallen off his shoulders, and the sleeve of his dirty green cardigan is rolled up to the elbow, exposing reddening welts that dot his forearm and hand. Sherlock is crying harder than Mycroft has ever heard his little brother cry before, and he lets out another scream that almost splits the air.

"What happened?" Mycroft asks, kneeling down beside his brother. Sherlock buries his face into Mycroft's lap, and keeps crying. He sniffles, and wipes his nose on the leg of Mycroft's trousers. Mycroft wrinkles his nose in disgust, but ruffles Sherlock's matted black hair. "Sherlock?"

"Owie!" Sherlock sobs. "Mye, it hurts!" Mycroft can feel Sherlock's tears soaking in through his trousers, but he decides to ignore it.

"Let me see," Mycroft says as gently as he can. Sherlock shakes his head, and tucks his arm in close to his body. "Sherlock..." the little boy shakes his head again. Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Sherlock Holmes, show me what happened to your arm. It won't get better unless you show me now." Slowly, Sherlock sits up, tears still running down his face, and stretches out his left arm. Bee stings, Mycroft notes. This could get dangerous. Sherlock sniffles once more, and looks up at his brother. The pain in the little boy's pale blue eyes stirs emotion inside Mycroft's chest, and Mycroft sighs.

"It hurts," Sherlock says again, a little more quietly. He isn't crying so loud any more, but tears are still streaming down his pale cheeks.

"What happened?"

"That." Sherlock points at the remains of a crumpled up beehive laying in the dirt.

"Why were you playing with a beehive?" Mycroft inspects the welts on Sherlock's arm and hand for any stingers, and he plucks out the three that remain in his brother's skin. Sherlock winces, and wipes at his face.

"I like bees," he says simply. "They're fuzzy. And they like to play in the garden, like me." He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and hangs his head. "I just wanted to make friends." Mycroft's heart drops into his stomach.

"Sherlock, you can't play with bees," he says. "Bees play with other bees, and children play with other children..." he stops himself at this point. What other children are there for Sherlock to play with? He stands up, and helps Sherlock to his feet. He scoops his brother up, and carries him on his hip toward the house. Sherlock rests his head against Mycroft's shoulder.

Mycroft plunks his brother down on top of the kitchen table, and stirs up a solution of water and baking soda.

"What's that?" Sherlock asks.

"It's, um... it's a magical potion that will make your bee stings stop hurting and go away."

"Nothing's magical, Mye." Mycroft furrows his brows at Sherlock's words, and ignores him.

"Hold still, and whatever you do, don't move a muscle." Sherlock sits perfectly still, and it's after Mycroft smears the white paste over a couple of bee stings that he realizes that Sherlock is even holding his breath. "For God's sake, Sherlock! You can breathe! You don't have to sit _that_ still!" Sherlock exhales, and sucks in a couple deep breaths.

"Ow, Mye! That stings!" Mycroft quickly finishes covering the welts, and dumps the baking soda and water mixture down the sink. He takes a tea towel out of the drawer, and wets it down. He sits down in front of Sherlock, and starts wiping at his face.

"That stuff on your arm is about to get all hard and it will feel funny for a while, but you can't pick at it, or else you're not going to get better. Do you understand?" Sherlock nods quickly.

"Thank you, Mye," he says quietly. Mycroft almost feels his heart grow a few sizes larger.

"You're welcome, Sherlock."


	2. The Sage

How can one possibly explain death to a five-year-old?

Mycroft stares blankly at the stipled ceiling of his bedroom, trying to organize his thoughts, but gives up and flops down onto the pillows. He knows Sherlock is going to be full of questions. The little boy always seems to be. Death seems so simple to Mycroft: a person is born; they wake up every morning and fall asleep every night; and the pattern carries on until the person eventually closes their eyes and never opens them again. He knows that Sherlock will come to him with questions. Mycroft closes his eyes. He's fourteen years old; he's not a sage with an answer for everything.

The door to his bedroom opens slowly, and the idle chatter of relatives he never really knew and really doesn't feel like speaking with invades his bedroom. He sits up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, clutching his stuffed toy bee close to his chest, and not smiling.

"Shut the door," Mycroft says quietly. Sherlock pushes the door with his foot until it clicks shut, and he wanders over to Mycroft's bed. He struggles for a moment to get up onto the mattress, until Mycroft grabs his brother under his armpits and pulls him up.

"It's too noisy out there," Sherlock says, staring down at his bee.

"It is," Mycroft agrees. He watches his little brother pluck out small chunks of polyester from the stuffed toy. "Hey, stop that. You're going to get fuzz all over the place." Sherlock looks up at Mycroft, and then back down at the bee.

"Mye," Sherlock starts. _Here it comes_, Mycroft sighs inwardly. "Mye, everybody's at our house. And Gran's not. And I asked where she was, and all the grown-ups looked really sad. And Mummy was crying. Mye, where's Gran?"

"She's not here, Sherlock," he answers. "She, um..." he trails off, unsure what to say next. He looks down at his now crossed legs, and shifts his weight so that they don't grow numb.

"Why not? Everyone else is here!" Sherlock is pulling at the tag on his toy now, and it comes off with a ripping sound. He rubs it between his fingers, and throws it on the floor. He starts running his fingers through his dark and curly hair, and then looks up at Mycroft with the saddest eyes Mycroft has ever seen. "Did she die?" The simplicity of the question is almost startling. _Might as well tell the truth_.

"Yes, she did." The words drop out of Mycroft's mouth. "She's not alive any more. That's why everybody is sad, and Mummy is crying." Sherlock scoots closer to his brother, and drops the bee into his lap.

"Why did she die?" Sherlock's voice is wavering now. Mycroft tries to smile sympathetically, but stops as soon as he starts. He reaches out and puts a hand on Sherlock's arm, and a few moments pass by in silence before he can think of anything to say.

"Because everybody dies eventually, Sherlock. Gran was very old, and when somebody gets too old, their body gets worn out. Gran's body got too worn out, and that's why she died." He hopes the explanation is enough.

"She used to read to me," Sherlock says after a few minutes. "And she used to watch me play outside when she was here. She was very nice."

"Yes, she was..."

"Mye, I heard Mummy and Aunt May talking. What's a funeral?" Mycroft clears his throat.

"It's when everybody in our family goes to the cemetary and says goodbye to Gran," he replies. Sherlock crawls into Mycroft's lap, and lays his head on his brother's chest.

"It's still noisy out there," Sherlock whispers. "I want to stay here with you."

* * *

The November sky is cloudy and overcast, just like Mycroft's mood. Sherlock hasn't left his side all day, and he eventually finds himself holding onto the boy's hand as they stand in front of the newly filled hole in the earth. Mycroft watches as Sherlock fiddles with the buttons of his thick, black overcoat with his free hand, chewing on his bottom lip. Mycroft knows that look. Sherlock's trying not to cry.

"You can cry if you want to, Sherlock," he says. "You can cry if you're sad." As if on cue, Sherlock's eyes start brimming with tears, and the boy hangs his head.

"I'm sad because I miss her," Sherlock manages. "Mye, I don't want to miss anybody ever again."

The little boy's words send a single tear down Mycroft's cheek.


	3. Playing By Ear

__A/N: Thanks for the lovely reviews, you guys! So I guess this is a little part explaining one of the many possible reasons that Mycroft and Sherlock don't like one another. Enjoy!

* * *

_ October 9th, evening._

_ I seriously regret giving in when Mum told me to give Sherlock my violin. It's true that I no longer take an interest in it, but I'm honestly considering destroying the bloody instrument. I have no idea if Sherlock's even trying to play a tune, and if he is, he's absolutely butchering it. It sounds like a combination of "God Save the Queen" and a cat being skinned. Mum thinks that he's so intelligent, he has to be good at everything. Hence why my violin is now his. He's only had the violin for a week; I'll give him that. But if this horrible screeching continues, I swear I am going to kick his door in..._

Mycroft slams his journal shut and stuffs it under his pillow. He throws his pen in the general direction of his desk, and flops down onto his bed. He's ready to curse whoever built the house and put his room right beside his brother's. Then, he decides he's about ready to curse his brother for being so bloody loud and awful on the violin. He sighs louder than he needs to, hoping that Sherlock might get the hint. Of course, he keeps right on playing. Mycroft turns his head and stares at his record player, which sits on the left side of his desk, barely used. "If you can't beat him..." he tells himself quietly. He walks over to his shelf and shuffles through his small collection of vinyls, not really feeling like listening to anything at all. He comes across a Beatles album that Grandma Holmes gave him for Christmas one year, and shrugs. _Love Me Do... Hmm..._ He has never listened to it before, nor had he taken an interest. He sets the player to the correct RPM, and turns it up with a self-satisfied smirk. "...tune him out with The Beatles."

Mycroft realizes right away why he's never listened to the record before. This is definitely _not_ his genre. The non-flowing background music, the loud guitars, and the simple, childish lyrics make him want to punch the wall. He doesn't understand how Grandma Holmes ever thought he'd like this music! He plops back down on his bed, still irritated, but thankful that he can't hear Sherlock's violin playing any more. A few songs later, and he can't stand it any longer. He gets up, switches off the record player, and is surprisingly greeted with a beautiful silence. He takes a deep breath in, and exhales.

He hears the sound of Sherlock picking up the violin and bow

"Don't even think about it, Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft says loudly enough for Sherlock to hear.

He then hears the sound of a violin being put back in its case.

_October 18th, evening._

_ I almost hate to admit it, but Sherlock's getting a little bit better with that violin. He can play one intellegible tune. I'm not too sure what it is; probably something he's learned in school. His bow needs more rosin, but at least he's done with that horrible screeching and scraping._

_ Sherlock's been playing since nineteen-hundred... about an hour and a half now, which means that I've gone through this whole Beatles album for a second or third time since I first ever put it in the record player. I find that I'm becoming desensitised to The Beatles. Either that, or I can tolerate them. However, I hope that this doesn't become an everyday (well every night...) pattern. I get the suspicion that it will, though. I know how my brother works: he gets locked on something, and if he likes it, he won't stop until he's bored. Mum thinks he's, and I quote, "coming along rather nicely on that violin. He's really got a talent for it, considering he's just playing it by ear!". In other words, Mum thinks he's a prodigy. Not just with the violin, though. It's with everything else, as well. Ah, I don't want to get into this right now. Not the time. _

_ What does it matter, anyway? I am Mycroft Holmes: school council leader, first in my class, and a future member of parliament. And Sherlock Holmes is a child. Just a child._

Mycroft turns off the record player with a yawn, and tosses his journal back to its place under his pillow. He doesn't care if it's too early for bed. He shuts out his light, and pulls his shirt over his head. He shivers at a draft blowing into his bedroom, and pulls on his flannel pyjamas with haste. Sherlock is still playing his violin, but not as loudly as he had been these last few nights. Mycroft crawls under his quilts and sighs. Tomorrow will be Wednesday; Sherlock's class has a field trip and shouldn't be back until at least supper time. He smiles at the thought of a few hours of peace, and eventually drifts off to sleep.

* * *

Mycroft returns from school to find the house mercifully silent. His parents are still at work, but he doesn't mind at all. He drops his book bag behind his bedroom door and starts humming idly, pleased with having the house to himself.

"_Love, love me do, you know I love you..."_ he sings quietly. A few lines later, he stops himself. Why on Earth would he be singing a Beatles song? He shuts his mouth and tries to play some other songs inside his head, but it doesn't work. Eventually, he gives up, and realizes that he has the entirety of "Love Me Do" memorized. _It's all Sherlock's fault_, he tells himself. He glances at the clock on the wall. Mum should be bringing Sherlock home in a few hours. _Might as well turn on the slow cooker and start on supper..._

Sherlock refuses to eat when he comes in the house. Mycroft isn't surprised at his brother's black eye and cut cheek.

"So," Mycroft says. "How was the field trip?"

Sherlock says nothing.

"What exactly did you do?" Mycroft asks.

Sherlock glares at him. "How do you think it went?"

"From your black eye, that cut on your cheek, and your sulky mood, I assume it went as I thought it would!"

"Mycroft..." his mother warns. Mycroft ignores her.

"It was horrible," Sherlock says, crossing his arms. "We went down the Thames in these litte rafts, and Boris Taralson pushed me into the water! And when I came up, he and his mates had jumped in and pushed me back down again!"

"They tried drowning poor Sherlock!" Mum cuts in.

"They couldn't have randomly pushed you in," Mycroft replies. "What did you do to tick them off?"

"Mycroft Holmes!" He ignores Mum again.

"I didn't do anything!" Sherlock exclaims. "All I did was tell Boris that his 'amazing discovery of a brand new animal' was actually a dead minnow, that I knew he felt like he could never please his parents, and that he would keep getting fatter if he didn't stop eating Jammie Dodgers!"

"And let me guess: that's when he pushed you into the water?"

"No," Sherlock grumbles. "He punched me in the face first, and then he pushed me in."

"That's why you don't tell people their faults! Even though some _do_ have it coming..." he smirks. "Nice to see that you're submerged in your education!"

That last comment gets Mycroft sent to bed early.

Angered, he picks up his journal to write, but then decides to forget about it. Mum had given him a stern warning about playing any music (a punishment Mycroft finds pathetic), and now Mycroft has to sit in his room with no form of defense in case his brother tries to pick up that bloody violin again. He can hear Mum and Sherlock talking in the family room, and he strains to make out their words.

"It's just not fair," Sherlock says, still obviously sulking. "I thought it was really obvious about Boris!"

"And what did you see about Boris that told you that he thought his parents were never proud of him?"

"Mummy, I don't know! I just noticed! It's so easy to tell when you watch how he acts. And the Jammie Dodgers thing was obvious!" Mycroft hears his mother's gentle sigh.

"Sherlock," she says softly. "You have a very special mind. You and I both do. We're both very good at observing other people. I've learned to keep quiet so that I don't hurt someone else's feelings. If I had said something like that to anybody at my work, I would get fired. It's almost the same with you. If you hurt somebody's feelings, you're going to get yourself into a fight."

"He still didn't need to do that to me."

"I know, sweetheart," Mum coos. "But just remember that even though Boris and those other boys might be big and tough, you're much smarter than they will ever be. Now, go to your room, and have a good sleep. Maybe I'll see if I can keep you home from school tomorrow."

Mycroft wants to gag. He had learned right away when he was Sherlock's age to keep his mouth closed when it came to making deductions and finding out about others. He'd gotten himself into schoolyard fights too, back in his day, and an emotion he hasn't felt in a long time starts brewing inside his chest. Anger? No, that can't be it- he's already angry. Aggravation? Well, he's already feeling that, too. Envy? He pauses to think. It's very possible. He starts to feel absolutely disgusted. Mum might favour Sherlock, but is that really a good reason for a fifteen-year-old to feel jealous of his little brother?

Mycroft's thoughts are interrupted by the worst screeching and wailing he has ever heard come out of a violin. Sherlock likes to play his very worst when he is in a bad mood, it seems.

Mycroft realizes that if this keeps up, he's going to end up really liking The Beatles.


	4. Just Like a Bee

Sherlock has stood at the living room window, staring out at the garden for more than an hour now. Mycroft looks up from his homework to see that his brother hasn't moved an inch since the last time he checked, and with a sigh, he shuts his books and gets up from the Chesterfield. He comes up behind Sherlock and puts a hand on his shoulder, wondering if maybe his brother had fallen asleep standing up. With a boy like Sherlock, anything is possible. Sherlock doesn't flinch under Mycroft's hand, but slowly, he turns around. Mycroft is taken aback by the young boy's red eyes and expressionless visage. He's been crying, Mycroft realizes. Sherlock Holmes? Crying?

"You've stood there for an awfully long time, Sherlock," he says. Sherlock says nothing in response. He turns back to the window. "Sherlock," Mycroft repeats. "Look at me." Still making no sound, Sherlock turns back around and glares at his brother.

"It's none of your business, Mycroft!" he snaps. Mycroft's eyebrows shoot up involuntarily. Sherlock has since stopped calling him "Mye", and the sharpness in the boy's voice is startling. "Just go away."

"You know very well that I won't," Mycroft replies calmly. "I won't leave until you tell me what's wrong. "

"Nothing is wrong."

"You've been crying. You've been standing at that window for God knows how long, crying. I can tell. Your eyes are still red. So don't tell me that nothing is wrong, Sherlock."

"I don't want to talk about it." And at that, the boy turns on his heel and storms to his bedroom. A few moments later, Mycroft hears the sound of a bow being rosined, and soon, a melancholic tune floats out of Sherlock's bedroom. Mycroft settles back on the couch, and picks up his chemistry homework. He can't deny it: Sherlock has come a long way on that violin.

* * *

"Mycroft, I'm not going to school today!" Sherlock screams, holding onto the bars on his headboard for dear life as Mycroft grabs him by the ankles and starts to pull. Sherlock has a death grip on those bars, and Mycroft can see the boy's knuckles turning white. _It's only a matter of time before..._ Sherlock yelps, and lets go, falling face first into his pillow. _Ah, there we go!_

"Now get up, and get dressed! Just because Mum's not here doesn't mean that you can do whatever you want. Get moving! We'll both be late to school if you don't!" Sherlock groans, and sits up slowly. He rubs his face vigorously with his hands, and shakes his head, his long curls swaying along. He slides off the bed, and tugs at the buttons of his plaid pyjama top. Mycroft pulls open his brother's dresser and throws a purple shirt and a pair of black pressed trousers over his shoulder.

"I can't wear that!" Sherlock protests. Mycroft turns around and places his hands on his hips.

"Why not?"

"The trousers are fine. But the shirt is purple!"

"And what's wrong with that?"

"You wouldn't understand," Sherlock says quietly. Mycroft snorts.

"I understand a lot more than you think I do. I'm going to put your school lunch together, and when I come back, I expect you to be fully dressed, with your hair combed, and your bed made. Understand?"

Sherlock nods in response, and curses under his breath when Mycroft shuts the door behind him. He doesn't mind being in charge of others, but it's just _Sherlock_ he hates having to take care of when Mum puts Mycroft in charge.

In the kitchen, Mycroft searches the pantry for any of Sherlock's favourite snacks. _He's such a picky eater... it's a wonder how he's getting so tall._ Mycroft finds the box of Sherlock's favourite biscuits, and frowns when he finds out that it's empty. He tosses it into the rubbish bin, and continues his search. He glances down at his watch. They won't make it to the bus stop at this rate. Mycroft groans inwardly, and decides that he'd better drive this morning. Other than everything that Sherlock will absolutely refuse to eat, the pantry has nothing in it. He glances at his own lunch bag sitting on the table, and rolls his eyes. He can go without a lunch today. It won't be hard to trick someone into giving him part of theirs, anyway.

Five minutes later, Sherlock emerges into the kitchen, dressed and combed, just as Mycroft had instructed.

"Did you wash your face?" Mycroft asks.

"Yes."

"Brush your teeth?"

"You're not Mum, Mycroft."

"So you didn't brush your teeth. Wonderful." He reaches into the refrigerator and tosses Sherlock an apple. Sherlock glares down at the fruit. "Eat it," Mycroft says.

"I hate apples."

"I don't care. Apples clean your teeth. Unless you _like_ your mouth tasting bad all day."

Sherlock bites into the apple.

"I don't wanna go to school," he grumbles with his mouth full. Mycroft pretends he didn't hear.

* * *

After a few days, Sherlock's acting up and refusal to go to school starts turning into a pattern. A pattern which, when Mycroft was Sherlock's age, would have earned him a pretty hard slap on the bottom with the wooden spoon.

"Mycroft, when are Mum and Father coming home?" Sherlock asks one morning between mouthfuls of cereal.

"They were still on holiday in Grimpen when they phoned yesterday," Mycroft replies, already putting his breakfast dishes in the sink. "Then, they said that they were going to Dublin, so they've been travelling a lot. Mum said they'll be home probably next week."

"But they've been gone for a week already!" Sherlock pouts.

"I know, Sherlock," Mycroft replies. "but you'll just have to deal with it." He washes out his bowl and utensils, dries them, and then puts them back up in the cupboard. He turns back to Sherlock, and notices a small scrape on the side of the boy's face. _Not really red, but still looks recent. The skin isn't raised or swollen looking... must have happened yesterday in school._

"Where'd the scrape come from?"

"Nothing." Sherlock says tersely.

"It wasn't there yesterday morning, was it?" Sherlock shakes his head. "Ah. So you got it during school, I see."

Sherlock says nothing. He shrugs his shoulders.

"What did you do?"

"Shut up."

Over the course of the week, Sherlock has started coming home from school with a different injury each day. When the boy walks into the house with a blood-stained nose and a black eye, Mycroft decides that he should probably not ignore this one.

"What did you do?" He asks.

"Nothing," is Sherlock's simple reply.

"Stop that. You can't fool me. Something happened to you. Now tell me, what?"

"Remember Boris? The boy who pushed me into the Thames?"

"I do, yes..."

"He was being a prat. So I threw my jar of beetles at him, and he threw it back."

"And it hit you perfectly in the face...?"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore."

* * *

The telephone jangles loudly, startling Mycroft out of his nap. He looks around him groggily, and picks it up.

"Mycroft Holmes."

"Mycroft, are your parents there?." The voice on the other end belongs to a woman. _Who the hell...?_

"No, they're away."

"Then I'll have to talk to you."

"And who is speaking?"

"Mrs. Barker," she replies. There is a pause. "Sherlock's teacher." Mycroft can almost feel the headache coming on. He doesn't want to know what his little brother has done this time.

"And how may I help you?"

"Mycroft, there is a parent-teacher meeting tonight at the school. I had sent a note home with him a few days ago, but apparently, he hadn't given it to your parents. Now, he says that your parents have been gone for the past week, and that they won't be able to come tonight. Will you be able to meet with me?"

Mycroft tries to sigh away from the phone. "This is short notice," he replies.

"I know, and I'm terribly sorry."

"What time, then?"

"Within the hour or so would be fine, if that's not a problem. I really need to discuss Sherlock's... behaviour. Since you're his current guardian, your presence would be greatly appreciated."

"We'll be there as soon as possible," Mycroft says before hanging up. He leans back and pinches the bridge of his nose.

He comes outside to find his brother in the garden, crouched down beside a beehive laying in the dirt. Mycroft can't help but remember the last time he found Sherlock in a situation like this, three short years ago. That time, then-four-year-old Sherlock had discovered why one does not simply pick up a beehive with his bare hands. Sherlock doesn't seem to notice Mycroft's presence behind him, and he pokes gently at the beehive with a twig.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock turns with a start.

"What do you want?"

"What are you doing?"

"Studying these bees," he replies. "It's okay to like bees, you know!" Mycroft decides to get to his point, not wanting to argue right now.

"Well, brush yourself off, because your teacher phoned. We have to go to the school." Sherlock frowns, a look of disgust coming over his face.

"Whatever she says, Mycroft, don't believe her."

Mrs. Barker's classroom looks like it came fresh out of a Scholastic catalogue. All twenty-six desks are arranged in perfectly straight rows, each of them organized neatly inside. That is, until Mycroft's eyes fall on Sherlock's desk. Sherlock's desk looks like a whirlwind tore through it, with random piles of paper pushed into one side, a stack of books crammed into another, and even a little collection of rocks gathered on the corner of the desktop. _So what if his desk is a little messy?_ Mycroft thinks, now starting to wish that he didn't pick up the phone in the first place. _This better not be what she was talking about..._

Mrs. Barker clears her throat, and motions for Mycroft to sit down. She's a small woman, with grey hairs near her temples suggesting that she is closer to fifty than fourty, and even an outdated pair of blue horn-rimmed glasses to complete what Mycroft thinks of as the "Old Teacher" look.

"Sherlock," she says, obviously trying to use a sweet tone of voice. "Why don't you go out and play on the playground for a bit while I talk to your brother? There, very good! We won't be too long." Sherlock shuts the door behind him, and his teacher's face takes on a more serious expression.

"In twenty-five years of teaching," she begins. "I've never dealt with a child like Sherlock. He's a very bright, and extremely intelligent boy..." she trails off, and clears her throat. "But I'm afraid he hasn't got any friends."

"Ah..." her blunt statement cuts Mycroft's reply right out of his mouth. "I know. I've-"

"The other children," she cuts him off. "I don't know where to begin with him. They're jealous, I find. They're not as... intellectually _gifted_ as your brother is. What I mean to say is that they bully him horribly. Of course, Sherlock is not perfect, either. He does have a way of bothering the others. Pointing out their flaws, telling them exactly everything he knows about them. And when they ask him how he knows, all he says is-"

"I noticed," Mycroft finishes for her. "Ah, Mrs. Barker, Sherlock came home from school the other day with a black eye. He wouldn't tell me what actually happened, so I'm wondering if you might know anything about it."

"Oh?" She purses her lips, as if in thought. "Well, I did have to send a few students to the principal for a schoolyard fight. You know how little boys are; they don't like one another and it's settled with a punch and a tackle. I only dealt with one side of it, though. I didn't talk to the... other party involved."

"I assume you're talking about Boris Taralson," Mycroft responds. Mrs. Barker looks taken aback.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I'm not supposed to give out names, but yes. Sherlock has told you about him?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Apparently, Boris pushed my brother into the Thames, tried to hold him under the water, and then threw a jar at his face."

Mrs. Barker doesn't say anything.

"Now, what I was originally getting at," she finally says after a moment of uncomfortable silence. "is that he has no friends. He's lonely. And I think that his loneliness is what is causing this behaviour. Lately, he's been acting out in class, correcting me, correcting the _others_..."

"But he's like that," Mycroft says. "He's Sherlock. That's just how he is."

"Yes, but it's starting to get worse. Today, for example, he stayed in the classroom when everybody else went out to the playground, and he just covered his head with his arms and cried. I went over to him and asked him why he wasn't out with the others, but all he did was look at me with this blank face. He said something too. Now what was it... oh yes! 'Being alone protects me'. I'm concerned, Mycroft. I've tried to help him, but he refuses to open up to me. He refuses to try making friends. I'm afraid that eventually, he could become dangerous."

"I think Sherlock gets a bigger kick out of outsmarting people than by beating them up..."

"No. I don't mean a danger to others. I mean a danger to himself."

When Mycroft walks out of the school, he finds Sherlock in the playground, sitting at the bottom of the slide, intently studying something in his hand. When he comes closer, he notices that it's a dead bumblebee laying in his palm.

"Sherlock, please tell me you didn't just kill that bee," Mycroft says, crouching down to be eye level with his brother. Sherlock shakes his head.

"It was already dead," he says quietly, lightly running a finger over the fuzzy little body. "You know something, Mycroft?" there is a short pause. "Bees can hurt people, but sometimes they don't mean to. And then they die. That's not fair. Know why that's not fair? Because people hurt me all the time on purpose, but they get to stay alive and do it again."

Mycroft turns the boy's words over in his head. Maybe it isn't that Sherlock Holmes thinks too highly of himself to want to make friends. Maybe Sherlock is simply just like a bee.


	5. Medicine

Mum is the only one who favours Sherlock. Father certainly doesn't. Mycroft has always been his preferred child, even though Father doesn't admit it aloud. Mycroft struggles to keep paying attention to his book, but the fuss his eight-year-old brother is causing is tearing his attention away. He looks up to see Sherlock wrapped snugly in a cocoon of quilts, curled up on the opposite end of the Chesterfield from Father. He growls inwardly, wishing his brother hadn't woken up from his long nap.

"Nooooo!" Sherlock groans, shaking his head wildly, whipping his shaggy hair in all directions.

"Sherlock, you have to!" Father replies. Mycroft can sense the patience in his voice wearing thin. Father holds the spoonful of medicine up to Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock presses his lips tightly together.

"Nope!"

"You need it," Father tries again. "And for God's sake, you've already got a fever! Get out of those quilts!"

"I'm freezing," Sherlock grumbles.

"Sherlock, look," Father instantly puts on what Mycroft calls his "Military Face". "You will take the medicine, or else you will not get better. Is that clear?"

For a moment, Sherlock stops protesting. "So, if I don't take the medicine," he says. "I won't get better. And if I don't get better, then would I die?" Father sighs.

"Probably not. Your immune system would create antibodies that would fight off the virus."

"Okay, if my immune system is going to fight it off, then why do I need the medicine?"

"To speed up the process."

"I'll take my chances."

"You will not!"

"But Father!"

"Sherlock Sherringford Holmes, just take the damned medicine!" Mycroft interjects. Father turns around with a half-surprised, half-startled expression on his face.

"You're outnumbered," he says to Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes narrow into slits, and his jaw drops. Father uses this opportunity to shove the spoon into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock swallows the medicine and pulls a face. He glares at Mycroft again.

"Thank you, _Mycroft Arthur_!" he sneers.

"Enough of that," Father says tersely, standing up. "Really, though. Thank you, Mycroft," he adds as he leaves the room.

"You know I hate you, right?" Sherlock asks his brother. Mycroft snorts.

"Believe me, I know. I hate you, too."

"I hope you get sick."

Sherlock's hopes do not come true, much to Mycroft's delight. For the next three or four days, Sherlock lives on the Chesterfield, only getting up to eat or to use the bathroom, and then afterwards wandering back to his nest of quilts and flopping down. Mycroft thanks his stars for his strong immune system.

* * *

By Saturday, Sherlock doesn't want to eat. This doesn't surprise Mycroft. In fact, he was almost expecting this to be the first thing his brother would have done. In the morning, Mycroft steps out of his room and pads along the maple hardwood floor to find his brother sleeping soundly in his nest, with his arm wrapped protectively around his scuffed up toy bee. Mum is kneeling at his side, humming softly to him and rumpling his sweaty hair with her fingers. Beside the Chesterfield, Mycroft sees that Mum has prepared Sherlock his favourite breakfast: strawberry jam and thick slices of cheese on rye bread toast, with a cup of chocolate milk on the side. The plate sits neatly on the coffee table, which has been pushed close to the Chesterfield so that Sherlock wouldn't have to move very far to get it.

"Sherlock," Mum says gently into his ear. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock moans quietly.

"Wake up, there's toast here for you."

Sherlock's eyelids flutter, and his dark lashes frame just how red and tired his eyes really are. He sits up enough to lean on an elbow, gives the plate a quick once-over, and flops back down. "Not hungry," he mumbles.

"You still need to eat," Mum replies. Sherlock closes his eyes again, and shakes his head, matting his curls up even worse as they rub against his pillow.

"Mmmf..."

"Please?"

Sherlock makes a non-committal groan.

Mum looks up at Mycroft, and shrugs. Mycroft sighs inwardly. Time to take over, he supposes. Mum shuffles out of the way a bit as Mycroft kneels down next to Sherlock.

"Sherlock," he warns. "if you don't eat your toast now, it'll get cold. And then, you'll have insects getting into your cheese, and they'll eat it all up before you can get to it." He leans back. That should do the trick. Sherlock's response causes him to involuntarily frown.

"Then let them eat it. My stomach hurts." And with that, Sherlock rolls over with a huff.

Mum gives Mycroft Sherlock's breakfast.

The rest of the day's meals aren't much different: Sherlock is given a bit of food, he takes a look at it, he wrinkles his nose, and he refuses to eat. Despite Mum's coaxing, Sherlock remains as stubborn as ever, and with a worried sigh, she gives up, but leaves an orange or a pear on the coffee table, in case her son changes his mind. Mycroft can't even get him to eat, which is saying something.

Sherlock tries to eat on Sunday morning.

Mum and Father are both gone, leaving Mycroft to look after Sherlock. Even though he is expecting Sherlock to reject any type of breakfast like he had yesterday, Mycroft sets a small plate with a pancake and a bit of syrup on it down on the coffee table beside his little brother. He pours him a glass of milk, and sets a small handful of blueberries down next to the plate.

"Eat," Mycroft instructs. Sherlock knits his thick eyebrows together, and shakes his head. Mycroft crosses his arms, but he can't help noticing how pale the boy's face is.

"Sherlock, you hadn't eaten a thing yesterday, and you're starting to make Mummy very nervous. You don't want to upset her, do you?"

Sherlock doesn't argue. Instead, he sits up slowly, and pokes at his pancake with his fork.

"I thought not," Mycroft replies smugly. It takes a while before the plate is mostly cleaned, and Sherlock leans back into his nest and closes his eyes. Mycroft gathers up the dishes, and heads for the kitchen. "Don't fall asleep yet," he says. "You still have to take your medicine."

Sherlock doesn't complain this time.

When Mycroft returns, Sherlock is sitting up again, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands. Mycroft stops in front of him, and notices the boy's erratic breathing. His legs are trembling, and he starts pulling at his hair. _Possible anxiety attack_, he guesses. He unscrews the cap on the medicine bottle, and Sherlock gingerly stands up. He is now shivering violently, and his breath hitches in his throat. Mycroft doesn't like where this is going. _Possible anxiety attack, or else..._

Sherlock hangs his head, and throws up on the leg of Mycroft's trousers.

_...that._

Mycroft holds his leg out a short distance in front of him, unimpressed. _At least they were an old pair..._ Sherlock groans quietly, and crumples to the floor like a house of cards. His tired face has taken on a shade of pale green that Mycroft swears he will never enjoy seeing again.

"Eh, no!" he says, bending down and gripping Sherlock under his armpits. He lifts him back to his feet. "You're going to live in the bathroom for the rest of the day."

Sherlock spends the rest of Sunday slumped over the bathtub.

By Monday, Sherlock's condition starts to improve. He manages to keep down the little bits of food that he does eat, and by tea time, he is able to stand up and walk around without trembling. His face is still paler than usual, and the dark circles under his eyes haven't faded away yet, but Mum seems visibly relieved that _her baby_ is getting better.

"Well! Seeing as you're feeling better," Father exclaims as he and Mycroft walk into the sitting room, startling Sherlock out of a nap, "You can gather up these quilts and send them to the laundry. And then, you will take a shower. It's been a week. You need one. And you've done nothing but sleep."

Sherlock reluctantly sits up. "I was thinking. Great minds don't like to be disturbed."

"And you need to take your medicine," Father adds, blatantly ignoring Sherlock. "There is only about a spoonful left. I'm sure you can handle that. Mycroft, would you go and get it?"

"Fine!" Sherlock replies. He stands up, and pushes past Mycroft. He pulls the refrigerator open, and grabs the bottle from the shelf in the door. With a flick of the wrist, he throws the rest of the medicine back. Mycroft glares at his brother's smug expression when he closes the refrigerator and disappears down the hall.

"Well, I suppose that's one way to do it," Mycroft mutters to nobody.

He walks by the bathroom a moment later to find Sherlock spitting the purple liquid into the sink.

A couple of days later, it's Mycroft's turn to feel sick. He pulls his comforter over his head and relishes in the darkness that surrounds him. He feels like a metal spike is drilling into his skull, and the mental picture of that causes the pain to sharpen for a moment. He takes a couple deep breaths, and for a moment, he wonders if dying would be too dramatic of an option for getting rid of this pain. His stomach churns painfully, and he groans. He curses Sherlock under his breath for giving him his illness. _It's not fair,_ he thinks. _I have a strong immune system. I shouldn't be getting sick like this! _A few minutes later, he has no choice but close his eyes to block out the light of his bedroom and poke his head out of the blanket for some fresh air. The coolness of his pillow feels like Heaven.

He hears the door opening quietly, and a pair of footsteps sneak across the carpet floor. _Probably Mum coming in to check on me_, he assumes. He hears the sound of a bucket being placed on the floor beside his bed, and then he feels a hand rubbing his shoulder gently. Something warm and fuzzy brushes against the side of his face, and when Mycroft opens his eyes, he sees Sherlock's stuffed bee laying beside him, and Sherlock closing the door behind him.


	6. Sentiment

Mycroft wanders into his sitting room, greeted by a cozy fire burning brightly beneath the mantle. He settles into his armchair, and watches as snow flits and flies around past his window, and then blows off into the January evening. He looks back at the fire, and soon finds himself staring blankly at it while his mind starts to go fuzzy. It's been a year and a half in his new flat and he's still not completely used to it. He has his colleagues to negotiate deals and hold meetings with from time to time, and he's got his landlady, a plump, jovial woman in her forties. _What's her name again? Anita? Ursula...? Una? Yes, Una! That's it!_ He sighs. Even though he has his men and Una, something still feels like it's missing.

He glances briefly at the picture frame sitting up on the mantle. It's a professionally taken family portrait from five years ago. Then fifteen-year-old Mycroft and six-year-old Sherlock are sitting on a box in front of a black backdrop. Sherlock's hands are folded in his lap, while Mycroft has an arm around his brother. Before that particular moment, Mycroft had never forced a smile for so long in his life. Nor had he ever put an arm around his brother for any reason other than to put him in a submission hold of some sort. Mum and Father are standing behind them; Father towers over Mum by about a foot. Mycroft's eyes fall on his mother's face, and then to Sherlock's. They look almost exactly alike; same cheekbones, same icy blue eyes, same uncontrollable curly, black hair. If he remembers correctly, that's the longest he's ever seen Sherlock smile, too. He tears his gaze away from the photograph. It feels like he hasn't spoken to his brother in ages. Could that be what he feels is missing?

He gets up and lays the picture frame face-down. "Sentiment," he mutters to himself. "Can't have any of that."

* * *

"Mycroft, dear!" Mum's eyes are sparkling when she opens the door. "Come in! I was just about to call you!" Mycroft leans down and gives her a kiss on the cheek.

"And how are you, Mum?"

Mum smiles, as Mycroft shuts the door behind him. "I've been fine," she replies. "Not much has changed around here. Well, not much has changed for me."

"Oh?"

"Mhmm." She looks over her shoulder towards Sherlock's bedroom. "Things have been a bit different for your brother, though." Mycroft feels a smile coming on, but he's not sure why.

"Well it _is_ his birthday."

Mum chuckles. "Among other things."

Even though Mycroft has known him all his life, he can still barely believe how much Sherlock has grown. He still remembers when his brother was that pudgy four-year-old sitting in the garden, playing with the bees. And now? Now, Sherlock's head is almost comes up to his mother's shoulder, and his legs will soon look like stilts if they keep growing so fast! The boy's face is starting to thin out very slightly, and Mycroft knows it will only be a couple of years before that baby fat is all but gone. This must have been what Mum meant by the "other things" that were changing for Sherlock.

It feels strange to Mycroft, knowing that his little brother is going to grow up someday. He wonders if Sherlock will ever take an interest in girls, and if he does, what kind of girl he will end up taking home to introduce to Mum and Father. Will she be just like him? Sassy, intelligent, _insufferable_? Will he ever make a true friend, one that he can trust and be himself around, no matter what? What if girls aren't his forté? Would he end up interested in other boys, instead? Mycroft decides to push the thoughts out of his head. He never was a sentimental person, and he won't start with it now.

Sherlock emerges from his bedroom, and meets Mum and Mycroft in the sitting room.

"Ah, there you are!" Mum exclaims. "Have you been in your bedroom all this time? What have you been doing in there?"

"Experiment," Sherlock replies simply. He still has a soft voice, but Mycroft knows that it won't be long before that ceases to be the case. Sherlock clears his throat. "I've been growing mold, and watching how it spreads."

"Again?" Mum asks. "I hope you didn't use my good teacup this time..." Mycroft raises his eyebrows, amused, yet not surprised. Sherlock _would_ do something like that.

"Happy birthday," Mycroft says, changing the subject. "Eleven years old today! It's nice, isn't it?" Sherlock looks over at his brother, and shrugs.

"It doesn't feel any different," he says blandly. "I don't feel any older." He gives Mum a sideways glance. "Or taller..." Mum chuckles, and heads over to the book shelf across the room. She pulls a green photo album from the bottom shelf, and returns to her place on the Chesterfield, next to Mycroft.

"Sherlock, come sit down," she coaxes, scooting over and patting the cushion beside her. "and let's look at some old photos. Afterall, it _is_ your birthday, and it's kind of nice to see how you've grown over the years!"

Sherlock groans, but does what she says. Mum sits in the middle of Sherlock and Mycroft, with the album spread across her lap. She turns over the first page, and smiles warmly at the pictures; Sherlock's first few moments in this world. Most of them are black and white, but a few are in colour.

"You were such a tiny baby," Mum says, smoothing a finger over a photograph of little Sherlock sleeping in an incubator. "You were born about a month early, which really isn't good. You were very sick, too." She flips the page. "And it didn't help that your umbilical cord was wrapped 'round your neck. When you came out, you were blue!" Mycroft notices a picture of his nine-year-old self sitting beside Mum in her hospital bed, with Sherlock laying in his lap, swaddled in a thick blanket. Mum takes a deep breath. "You didn't cry at first. That was absolutely terrifying. You were completely silent for your first few seconds. Eventually, you did start, but even though you were breathing, the doctors thought you were still a tragedy waiting to happen."

"And how long did I stay in hospital for?" Sherlock asks. Mum sighs.

"Let me think," she replies. "You were born on the sixth of January... That picture of you and Mycroft was taken a few days later, so probably the ninth or tenth. I was allowed to leave the hospital the day after that, but you had to stay behind, even though I really wanted to take you home." She pauses for a moment, and flips the page again. "You had to stay in the children's ward for two weeks, and then a few days before you would have been able to come home, you got sick again and had to stay for another week or so. In total, you were there for about a month!"

Even though he had heard the story before, Mycroft is still surprised at what his brother had gone through as just a baby. While Mycroft apparently had a perfect, textbook birth and a brief stay in hospital (according to Mum), Sherlock was the result of nine long hours of labour, an emergency Caesarian, and was nearly stillborn. At the thought of this, Mycroft almost starts to feel a little more appreciation for his brother.

"Ah, look!" Mum points at a photograph of Mycroft standing on a step stool, trying to put a diaper on a screaming Sherlock, who is laying on the change table. "You even put his nappie on backwards!"

"Mum!" Mycroft exclaims. "Why would you take a picture of that?!"

"You haven't seen this one?"

"No! To be honest, I haven't actually looked through Sherlock's album. I've looked through yours, Father's, and mine, but not his..."

Sherlock tries to hold back a snort.

"And look here," Mum coos. "The three of us, all sleeping in my bed!" She is grinning from ear to ear. "You two got along so well back then."

"Well, I don't remember Sherlock doing very much in those days," Mycroft replies. "Other than crying, eating, and sleeping."

"Yes," Mum says distantly as she studies the other photos on the page. "he did do a lot of sleeping.

Eventually, they flip through the rest of the album, and Mum puts it back into the shelf. Mycroft can't help but feel odd now. He sums it up to too many memories and too much sentiment in one sitting. Sherlock seems uncomfortable, as well.

"Mycroft," he says when Mum leaves the room. "Mummy had a lot of feelings when we were looking at that album."

"Yeah, so? Didn't you?"

"Not really, no." the corners of Sherlock's mouth drop into a small frown. "I noticed that you had a few, but not very many."

Mycroft isn't sure what to say.

"Mycroft," his brother continues. "do you think there's something wrong with us?"

Mycroft tries to give his brother the most reassuring smile possible.

* * *

Back at his own flat, Mycroft lights another fire, and lingers in front of it for a few moments as it warms his legs and feet. Though he is by himself tonight, he doesn't feel as empty as he had felt earlier. He takes the tipped over picture frame and stands it back up. He can almost feel his brother smiling through the glass at him. _It was nice to see him again_, he thinks. Almost as soon as the thought floats into his head, Mycroft tries to push it out, as an overall feeling of discontent runs through him.

"Sentiment," he mutters to himself for a second time as a reminder. "Don't need any more of it."


	7. I Worry About Him

Author's note: Thank you for all the lovely reviews!

But this chapter might be a little triggering (drug references, and other situations that make me wish I could rate individual chapters on this site). Otherwise, it's not too specific, and no graphic depictions. Just thought I'd let you know!

* * *

Mycroft lets the phone drop into his lap, and with a deep sigh, he rests his head in his hands. Why is it now, when he is at his most confident, and so close to having the entirety of Britain sitting in his palm, that the world has to turn upside down for the Holmes family? For a while, it seemed, they were _happy_. That is, if a Holmes could ever truly have an emotion like that. With Father's place in government, and Mycroft following closely in his footsteps, they were on their way to becoming one of the most powerful families in the nation. And now?

_It's your father..._ Mycroft can still hear Mum's words inside his head. Oh, how weary she sounded when she said them. _We found out he has Leukemia...No, we can't do anything about it... it's too late now... He hasn't much longer. You need to come and see him soon..._ Mycroft shuts his eyes and tries to force her voice to leave his head, but in vain. The words repeat themselves, seeming to grow louder and louder, until they are like shrill screams that ricochet around the inside of his skull. He can picture Mum sitting in the hospital beside Father, holding his hand, telling him that he will be okay, even when everybody knows that it's not true. He can picture his father laying there, half awake, using all of his strength just to listen to her words. Then, he thinks of Sherlock. He can barely imagine how his brother would be. He starts to feel a nagging concern in the pit of his stomach.

_He's seventeen years old,_ Mycroft says to the nagging feeling. _He understands what's going on. He probably already knew it was going to happen. _

_ Go and see him,_ the feeling counters.

_I'll go see Mum and Sherlock when I'm ready to. Sherlock will be just fine. He'll cope._

_ How will he cope?_

Mycroft's eyes snap open. The thought of Sherlock, and what he could be doing, causes him to worry. It wasn't long ago that Mycroft had found out that his brother had tried using cocaine. _Bored_, was Sherlock's explanation. Mycroft didn't doubt it, either. It was strange, and nearly frightening, that as Sherlock grew up, it became clear that his mind was more complicated than their family expected. Before being expelled from his third school, Sherlock was the top of his class, and Mycroft could tell that Sherlock had achieved, and exceeded, Mum's skills, as he could rattle off deductions faster than she and Mycroft ever could. Mycroft glances up at the ceiling towards a God he has never thought about before. If Sherlock was trying drugs because he was bored, then what will he do if he starts feeling depressed?

He lets the nagging feeling win the internal argument, and he rushes out of his flat to start his car, not even bothering to put on a coat.

He lets himself into the house, and is greeted with silence. He hears absolutely no trace of a sound, except for the ticking of the clock on the kitchen wall, and the distant rumbling of the washing machine and dryer in the basement. He closes the door slowly behind him, and without taking off his shoes, he wanders through the empty kitchen, sitting room, and hallways. He knows they're home; Mum's vehicle was sitting in the driveway when Mycroft pulled up. _But where are they_? At last, he hears voices coming from across the yard. They're in the garden.

Mycroft has to duck his head to walk under the wooden arch leading into the garden, and he finds Mum standing next to Sherlock, who is kneeling down beside a flowerbed, watching a bee as it dances around the petals of a bright pink petunia.

"Sherlock," she says, obviously flustered. "You're upset. That's a normal thing to feel. And I'm sad about this, too. We all are. You can talk about it." Mum turns around and gives Mycroft a blank expression.

Sherlock says nothing.

"I know this is something you've never had to experience before," Mum says, turning back to Sherlock. "And we're going to miss him very much, but-"

"He's not dead yet!" Sherlock snaps, standing up. Mum backs off, and steps away. When Sherlock turns around, Mum has already left the garden, leaving Mycroft and his brother alone. Sherlock looks at Mycroft, but he can't seem to bring himself to glare at his brother. Mycroft crosses his arms.

"What you said to Mum," he starts. He watches Sherlock's face to see if it shows any expression at all. "It was not good. Well, not really."

"Not good..." Sherlock repeats quietly. "And I've hurt her feelings."

"Yes, you have. But before you go and apologize, which _I'm sure you will_, I want to talk to you for a moment."

"I don't feel like talking."

"Well, you'll have to." Mycroft leans against the arch, not sure where to begin. "Remember when Gran passed away? You were just little then, but do you remember?"

"Yes," Sherlock replies, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Okay, and do you remember how you dealt with that?"

"I stopped thinking about it."

"Alright." Mycroft thinks for a moment about what to say next. "And eventually, you accepted it, and it didn't hurt any more. Now, with Father, how do you think you'll deal-"

Sherlock interrupts him with a sigh. "You think I'll start using more drugs to handle this scenario, don't you?" It's more of a statement than a question.

"More or less, yes." Sherlock puts his hands on his hips.

"And why are you concerned?"

Mycroft steps toward his brother until he knows his stare can break through Sherlock's blank face. "Because," he says. "You are my brother, and I don't want to see you destroy yourself."

Sherlock huffs.

"Sherlock, I'm serious."

"I know."

"Well?"

There is a long moment of silence. The unbuttoned cuff of Sherlock's sleeve catches Mycroft's eye. The black fabric contrasts with Sherlock's pale wrist, but something else about it gets Mycroft's attention. He notices raised red lines running across his brother's skin. Sherlock tugs at his sleeve when he notices Mycroft's gaze on his arm. Mycroft opens his mouth to speak, but Sherlock shakes his head slowly and walks out of the garden.

"I worry about him," Mycroft says to nobody.


	8. Constantly

Irene Adler is dead.

Apparently.

Mycroft puts his mobile phone back into his pocket, and leans back in his armchair. The fire doesn't feel so warm and comforting now. Now, he's on the verge of worry. Irene Adler, the one thing keeping his brother's mind occupied all this time, is gone. The thought of how Sherlock will behave starts to pick at Mycroft's brain. He flashes back to a several years ago, to the memories of his father's battle with Leukemia, and his death shortly after. He remembers Sherlock's response. The image of red lines running across his brother's white skin still sticks in Mycroft's mind, and he begins to wonder...

_No, he wouldn't. He's much too old for that._

But another part of him isn't convinced. _It doesn't mean he won't do it. _

_ But he's got the doctor there, and the landlady. He won't be alone._

_ That doesn't mean anything. It's Christmas; they're probably out and about. It might not be cutting. He might start using again. _

He drops his head into his hands and takes a deep breath in. He waits until he starts to feel dizzy before he exhales.

"Smoking indoors," Sherlock says. "Isn't there one of those... 'law' things?"

Mycroft swallows his sharp reply. "We're in a morgue," he says instead. "There's only so much damage you can do." He's not sure if he should have given Sherlock that cigarette, even if it was low-tar. Sherlock doesn't need anything stronger than that, Mycroft decides. It's risky enough giving him one with the possibility of him turning to something else to dull his pain. He utters what he knows is an insensitive response to his brother's complaint about the cigarette being low-tar, and after a few moments, he turns to leave.

He doesn't want to have to spend the rest of the night with Sherlock. It's one thing to stop at the flat from time to time, but it's another to actually _stay_ there. Especially after asking his flatmate to search the place for anything Sherlock might try to use. He's dealt with Sherlock and his habits, behaviours, and mood swings for long enough. His brother could fall into another set of capable hands. He takes out his mobile and shuffles through his contacts list until the right name shows up.

"Have you found anything?" Mycroft asks, as soon as Doctor Watson picks up the phone.

"No," Watson replies. He asks if Sherlock took the cigarette, to which Mycroft answers truthfully. The man on the other end of the phone curses, and Mycroft resists the urge to sigh out loud. "Are you sure tonight's a danger night?"

"No," Mycroft says. It's the truth. He's not entirely sure if Sherlock is about to put himself in any immediate danger when he has his flatmate there with him, especially if said flatmate is a doctor. But then again, Sherlock does know how to do these things in secret. To this thought, Mycroft adds, "but then, I never am. You have to stay with him, John."

"But I've got plans..."

_Plans?_ For a second, Mycroft wants to tear into John. Sherlock is in potential danger to himself, and John Watson has _plans_?!

"No." He hangs up the phone as soon as the word falls from his mouth. It almost pains him to use so much self-control, and he leaves the hospital more angry than worried. He knows that John will probably listen to the command, and after a short while, Mycroft starts to calm down. He supposes it's only natural for one to have plans for a holiday. Maybe it's natural to assume that a man would look after his little brother, too.

It's a few days later before Mycroft comes to 221B Baker Street to talk to Sherlock. He is relieved to see that his brother doesn't show any signs of having used any drugs over the past couple days, and in his head, he thanks John Watson for abandoning his plans to look after Sherlock. Of course, Sherlock is not happy to see Mycroft at all, and more or less chases him out of the flat, but that doesn't bother him any more.

John had been successful in keeping Sherlock safe, and that's what matters most now. As if much matters to Mycroft. Still, though, if he could, he would feel a bit of guilt for being so angry with John for having "plans".

But he knows that it won't always be this easy. Mycroft knows that in times of pain, somebody's going to have to look after Sherlock, be it himself or John. He knows that Sherlock will end up alright in the end, but somebody has to help him get there. Constantly.


End file.
